CREATIVE Robert Minhinnick & Photos by Eamon Bourke

Sker

How can this be? I search but she is
already gone. The cave she lived in?
The sea rinses it twice daily with its
furious housekeeping.

In the ward she was hung from wires and
the wires were hung upon her.
Black roses. White thorns.
Then dawn and a hypertensive
winter in its veins. What’s for us who are
left? Debris of daybreak and the sea full of sharps...

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